


I Must Not Tell Lies

by emeraldsage85



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 22:07:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4894135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emeraldsage85/pseuds/emeraldsage85
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The new recruits for the Auror training program go on a field trip to Azkaban Prison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Harry joins Ron in the Auror training room in the wee hours of the morning. The department head, John Dawlish, has ordered that all new recruits be there for a 4:00 am field trip. 

“Why does this have to be so early?” Ron complains while stifling a yawn.

“Beats me,” Harry mutters. 

They gather around with the other trainees, most of them looking bleary eyed and yawning. A few are talking quietly with their friends, wondering just what the department has in store for them since it hasn’t been announced where they’re going. Finally, after the last of the new recruits have trickled in, Dawlish makes an appearance. 

“Your attention please,” he bellows.

It’s really not necessary because the room was near-silent to begin with but he waits patiently for the crowd to turn their eyes on him.

“As you all know, I have arranged a field trip for us today. I apologize for the early hour but we have a long journey ahead of us, which will require travelling by port key. We’ll be taking them in groups of five or six from the grounds outside. Once you arrive at your destination, wait for the rest of the group to get there and we will complete the journey by boat.”

“Sir, where are we going?” a nervous-looking young man at the front asks.

“I’m getting to that,” Dawlish says somewhat irritably, “We will be touring Azkaban Prison. This is a mandatory trip; no exceptions!”

Furious murmuring breaks out in the room. Harry feels the blood drain from his face and notices several of his colleagues looking rather horrified. He’d fight Voldemort again before having to set foot in that place.

“I don’t want to go,” Ron whispers.

“Me neither. That place is terrifying,” Harry agrees.

“Silence! If you would all head out to the grounds we can start port keying out of here,” Dawlish shouts. 

Several of the senior Aurors begin herding them out and Harry finds himself being shunted along by the crowd. He doesn’t speak to Ron, just keeps his head down as he allows himself to be jostled by his peers. He wonders vaguely what’s going to happen when they’re exposed to the Dementors. They’ve always affected him more greatly anyone he knows and he doesn’t want to have a fit in front of everyone while hearing the screams of his long dead parents.

“They’re mental, making us go to that place,” Ron says. 

Lost in thought, Harry doesn’t reply.


	2. Chapter 2

Using the port keys proves to be a similar experience to the Quidditch World cup. Once again Harry feels the rough sensation of a hook grabbing him by the navel and whipping him off to parts unknown. He and Ron land on the cold, rocky ground with a hard thump.

“Aargh,” Ron moans from beside him.

Harry gets to his feet, gives Ron a hand up, and then takes in his surroundings. They’re standing on a large outcropping of rock overlooking a stormy sea. In the distance is the island with its enormous stone prison looming forebodingly. There are no trees, grass, or shrubs of any kind, just dark, choppy water and bleak gray rock as far as the eye can see.

“I don’t like this,” Ron moans and Harry is inclined to agree. 

They huddle together, shivering against the icy wind as it burrows itself beneath their traveling cloaks while they wait for the rest of the group to arrive. When everyone is assembled, Dawlish positions himself at the edge of the outcropping and summons the boats. They arrive up out of the water, looking weather beaten and rickety, reminding Harry uncomfortably of the night he and Dumbledore tried to retrieve the locket. Several of the new recruits balk at getting in but the senior Aurors urge them on. 

“Let’s go then,” Harry says anxiously.

The journey across the sea feels like it takes ages. Icy water whips around them, coating them all with salty sea spray before sloshing into the boat to wet everyone’s feet. By the time they arrive at the island they’re all uncomfortably cold and drenched. The group clamber s up the jagged rocks, slipping and sliding all the way until they reach the heavy wooden doors. Dawlish grasps the iron door knocker and raps three times. Harry feels his hand automatically reach for his wand as he expects the worst, thinking that perhaps there are dementors on the other side just waiting for their next meal. Beside him he senses his colleagues doing the same. To their surprise, the door bangs open and a frail looking elderly man in uniform totters out.

“John! I haven’t you seen in ages!” he says warmly.

“Good to see you Arthur,” Dawlish says with a curt nod.

“You’d better bring this sorry lot inside before they catch cold,” Arthur wheezes, “The storm’s getting worse.” 

The first floor of the prison is not quite like Harry’s imagined it; somehow he’s always pictured it as being nothing but rows upon rows of cells filled with prisoners. It surprises him to see that there is a guard station littered with paperwork and various Quidditch posters, several battered old chairs, and an ancient muggle coffee machine. Somehow this makes Harry feel a bit comforted, as though maybe this place won’t be so bad after all. This time when Harry reaches for his wand, it’s to quickly cast drying charms on his robes and socks. After a few moments of waiting, Arthur enters the room again carrying a giant brass ring full of hundreds of jangling keys.

“Welcome to Azkaban Prison. I’m sure most of you would rather be elsewhere, judging by the looks on your faces. I can assure you that no harm will come to you while you are here. Now here are the rules of the tour: number one; stick together. We don’t need any of you wandering off and getting lost. Number two; please refrain from going near the dementors. There are very few here at present and if we’re lucky we may not see them at all today. However, sometimes that is unavoidable. Keep your distance and don’t engage with them. Number three; no magic is to be performed near the cells unless it is a life-threatening situation. Exceptions for patronuses may be made if we find ourselves going near any dementors today. If you’ll all follow me, we can head this way.”

Having finished his speech, Arthur leads them to the end of the hall and unlocks a rusty iron door. The group follows him up a narrow, crumbling stone staircase to the second floor. This floor has none of the small comforts that the first floor has. It’s clearly a place where prisoners are left to rot. Rows upon rows of heavy iron bars guard the dank stone cells. 

Prisoners huddle inside of them, dressed in tattered grey and black robes. Most of them sit or lie on the cold stone floors of the bare cells. There are no comforts of any sort for them; in fact all of them are filthy and unkempt looking. Some of them raise their eyes to look at the visitors, leering uncomfortably at them as they pass by. Others show no acknowledgement or turn their faces away.

“Blimey mate. Where do you think they go to the loo?” Ron whispers.

Harry shakes his head by way of reply. He doesn’t want to speak as he takes in the vile surroundings. As their group soldiers on through the rows, he notices the crudely hewn wooden signs with the names of each prisoner outside of their cells. Some of them he recognizes: McNair, Dolohov, Carrow, Goyle… Harry finds himself falling behind the rest of his co-workers as he stops to read each name. 

Ron prods him in the back and mutters, “Get a move on mate or we’ll be left behind.” 

“Er, right, sorry,” Harry says.

As the two of them pass by another row of cells, a loud screech startles them into stopping in their tracks. A woman is clutching at the bars of her cell and wailing at the top her lungs. She’s a short woman with a dishevelled mop of dirty graying curls and large pale eyes. Her broad, pouchy face, slack mouth, and little appearance of a neck remind Harry of a toad that’s about to swallow a fly. 

She grips the bars and says in a girlish, simpering voice, “Harry! It’s you! You remember me, don’t you? You can tell them I don’t belong here!”

For a moment Harry stares at her with a coldness that would make anyone think he was looking right through them.

Then he says, “I’m sorry Delores but one mustn’t tell lies.”

He hurries off to catch up to the rest of the tour group, Ron trailing in his wake.


End file.
